The Sinner's Angel
by thebluedetective
Summary: As the ground rushes forward, a memory sparks in Sherlock's mind. The case he never solved, the one that haunted him- still haunts him- even as the cement looms closer and closer. It all started when Sherlock was six years old...
1. Chapter 1

_I stood on the rooftop of Barts, the concrete looking so far away, realizing what needed to be done. _

_"This phone call, it's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note," my voice sounded strange and dry. The lie lay heavy on my lips, stenching like the corpse of Moriarty would be soon. John's face, I could see it even from up here, paled. _

_"Leave a note when?" his voice crackled over the phone. John knew what I meant. He just didn't want to believe it. Just like I knew he wouldn't believe anything I had just said. The corner of my mouth twitched. John...John would believe in me. He'd never stop. _

_"Goodbye, John." _

_"No. Don't-." I hung up, tossing the phone aside. It was just me now. Me and the gunmen with the bullet pointed at John's head. At Mrs. Hudson's head. At Lestrade's head. So I spread my arms, and I fell. As the world rushed closer, a memory flashed before my eyes. Her long hair shimmered in the sunlight and the blood that dripped from the slit in her throat had pooled beneath her. The case I couldn't solve. I remembered it so clearly. It had all started in my mother's kitchen, twenty some odd years ago..._

"Sherlock, those were my best shoes!" Mycroft's voice was loud and angry in my right ear, and the arm he'd wrapped around my neck tightened.

"Staa-nnhnn-aghr," I tried to reply but my voice was thin and gurgly and my older brother definitely wasn't listening. The world had started spinning and blackness cloaked the edges. Then suddenly, in a burst of morning sunshine, an angel walked in, fresh from the garden, the dirt under her nails smelling of summertime.

"Mycroft! Let him go!" my mother shouted, dropping her basket and running over, pulling Mycroft off me. I dropped to the stone floor, panting and sputtering. My mother's screamed scolds were muffled by my haggard breaths and I slowly pushed myself up, trying to force more air into me. The kitchen door slamming brought me back to the real world. I looked up, realizing my brother had left, leaving just me and my mother. "Oh Sherlock, are you alright?" the blonde angel dropped down beside me, grabbing my face with her hands, twisting around to look at me.

"I'm alright, Mummy," I rasped, smiling weakly. Of course, she didn't believe me, but she smiled anyways.

"It's ok, Sherlock," she hugged me close, "Daddy will tell Mycroft not to do that again." I smiled, breathing deeply into her sweater. Chanel No. 5. Her favorite perfume. After a moment, she let me go and set about cheerily making me lunch. I climbed up onto the counter, watching the angel at her work. Her long blonde tresses swung behind her as she sashayed around the room, and she blinked her large blue eyes with thick blonde lashes. Her smile was bright white and sparkling as she flashed it at me over her shoulder. I rested my head on my arms, watching her sleepily.

I loved my mummy more than anyone in the world. More than my father, more than my dog Samson, especially more than Mycroft. The thought of Mycroft brought my mind back to the fight and why I'd borrowed his trainers in the first place. I'd needed them for an experiment. Mycroft had definitely been lying when he told our parents he'd been at a study session last night. The new scuff marks on his shoes contradicted that completely. On closer examination, I'd noticed tiny bits of gritty gravel in them, likely from stone. There was dark ash staining the white bottoms and some blue fibers had gotten caught in the ridges. By smelling the ashes, and testing flames on a few different things, I'd determined the fire was from lighting a fabric. The stone I'd matched to the wall at the end of our property. Mycroft had climbed over the wall to go to one of his teenager anti-government meetings. They'd probably burned a flag or something. I opened my mouth to tell my mother, but then I stopped. My stupid older brother was going to get in trouble anyways. It wouldn't be worth it. "There you go, love," my mother smiled, setting a plate down before me. All thoughts of revenge vanished from my mind and I picked at the food, more content to analyze it than eat it. My mother bent down, opening the fridge and sighed.

"Sherlock, dear, we're out of milk," she looked up at me, smiling with those blue eyes, "Can you run down to the shop and get some for me?" I slumped to the side, an annoyed look crossing my face. I hated shopping for milk. My mother tilted her head, the way I'd seen Mycroft do before, and I sighed in response. She handed me a five pound note, bending close. "It would be a secret mission," her whisper caressed my face. Mint toothpaste. Colgate, most likely. I smiled, clutching the note in my fist, turned and ran towards the door.


	2. Chapter 2

My new blue scarf flew in the breeze behind me as I raced down the lane to the local store. The wool felt soft on my neck where Mycroft had pulled a little too tight. Today was an overcast day, the sky white and clouded. The breeze was too crisp for rain, so I'd put on my long coat and flipped up the collar. I looked like a pirate! Gravel crunched under my feet and the bell of the market door crashed against the wooden frame as I burst in.

"Out of the way!" I shouted, crashing past a short blonde kid staring open mouthed at the wall of jam. Skidding to a stop in front of the scratched fridge glass, I panted and stared up. There were at least fifty kinds of milk and the kind my mother wanted was on the very top shelf.

"Young Sherlock, what are you doing running around all over the place?" Angston the old war veteran crutched over, smiling down at me from crinkled brown eyes. I continued to pant, glancing at the fridge and at his knee. The limp was psychosomatic. If only he'd realize that... Suddenly Angston noticed the five pound note still clutched in my pale fist. "Come to get milk for your mother?" he chuckled, "Here, young man!" And he reached up and grabbed me the milk. I nodded to him, running back through the store. I passed by the little blonde kid again, still staring open mouthed at the jam selection. I chuckled to myself. He looked a bit like a hedgehog. Tossing the money at the cashier, I crashed back out the door back up the lane, the mission soon complete.

My mother wasn't alone in the kitchen when I burst back in, still panting.

"Sherlock, my boy!" the angel's husband smiled at me, picking me up in his arms. I looked just like my father. We had the same dark curly hair, pale skin, and even though I was sort of short for my age now, I'd been told I'd be tall like him someday. If not, I could always get a short friend and a good coat. "Let me see your neck," my father said, somewhat jovially, and lifted up my chin. "Yes, I see," I watched his face as he mumbled, inspecting the red marks, "Yes." My father set me down on the floor, patting my head. He looked up at my mother, all of his joviality gone. "Where's Mycroft?" his voice was deep and commanding, the head of the ward.

"I don't know," my mother's reply was sweet and soft, completely opposite my father's. The sigh that escaped my father's lips wasn't so different from the one that escaped mine sometimes.

"I'll find him," and the doctor swept out. The angel watched the door slam and sighed, but it was a contented sigh. I crawled back up on the counter, holding out my prize. The angel's smile was brilliant, making my heart flutter with joy.

"Why thank you, Sherlock!" she smiled even wider, "You're the sweetest person I know!"

The long wooden beam swayed underneath my feet and I stepped to the side, avoiding my adversary's sword. I leapt forward, the ocean breeze whipping my dark hair, swinging my cutlass at the navy captain. But he retaliated, parrying each blow. He wasn't good enough though. As the clank of his sword hitting the deck far below rang in our ears, I lowered my blade to his neck.

"You can never escape the awesome Captain Sherlo-," I started, but I was interrupted.

"Hey!" I stopped. The pirate ship was gone, replaced by the darkness of inside my eyelids. "Hey!" came the shout again. I opened my eyes and turned around. A red haired boy was running across the grass towards me, waving his hand. "Hey!" he shouted again, stopping beneath me. I looked down at him from my perch on the wall and lowered my wooden sword. Pushing the large pirate's hat off my eyes, I spoke.

"What do you want?" The red haired boy had a serious face. He looked up at me with a far older gaze than kids our age should have and when he spoke, you could almost hear the weight of the world creaking on his shoulders.

"I need your help," he said simply, staring up at me. I turned, staring at him. We were the same age. I'd seen him maybe once at school. Not one of the kids who picked on me, so that was ok. He's lost something. Something dear to him, given the state of his eyes. Red around the rims, he'd been crying. His coat was dusty, his boots muddy, and there were nettles on his. He'd been searching in the forest. For his dog. Yes, his dog.

"The police can find your dog, why have you come to me?" I asked. The boy barely blinked.

"Because you're smart," he answered bluntly. Shaking off my pirate hat and dropping my sword, I hopped off the wall.

"Come on Samson!" I shouted to my lazy pooch. The sleepy blood hound, lying in the field, raised his head and jumped to his feet, padding over. The red haired boy watched my dog with jealousy. "Where did you last see him?" I began and we were off.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sherlock, pass the salt," Mycroft said, not looking at me. I glanced up from my hardly touched plate.

"It's next to you," I replied. My older brother looked up.

"So?" he was bullying me again. But I didn't care. As long as he didn't sit on me, I could handle him.

"It's closer to you. Get it yourself," I replied and looked back down at my plate, resuming counting the peas. Kyle Halloran's dog was not where I had thought it would be. If the creature had run away, as I'd originally expected, it would have gone somewhere warm and with good supply of food. But when we arrived, the alley behind the pub was completely empty and there was no sign of any dog having been there ever. Only cats. Ugh.

"Pass the salt, Sherlock," Mycroft said firmly, putting down his knife and fork, glaring across the table.

"Ehhh, no," I continued counting the peas. The dog's hutch hadn't given any clues. The thing was completely clean aside from the bowl by the door and the squeaky toy inside. There wasn't even anything on the hook. The hook... A sudden slam brought me back to my senses.

"Sherlock! Do as I say or I will hit you!" Mycroft shouted.

"No! The salt is closer to you!" I shouted back.

"Boys, please...," my mother's whimpers were muffled as our shouting escalated. Mycroft was being a complete arse. He knew the salt was closer to him but he just wanted me to do his will. Well, I wasn't going to stand for it. The fighting got louder and louder until-

"Enough already!" our father's voice rang around the room. Silence fell. Mycroft sat down and suddenly I realized I was standing as well. Dropping back down in my chair, I returned Mycroft's glare. The salt had been knocked over in the din and lay forlorn and forgotten, spread on the table cloth. Our father sat back in his throne, resting his head in his hand. "Can't you two get along," he growled, then jumping to his feet, shouting, "for five minutes!" Mycroft looked away, but I held my father's gaze. He wouldn't hurt us. The angel wouldn't let him. The doctor glared at his two sons, back to the firm growl, "Mycroft, leave your little brother alone. He's six-,"

"six and a half," I corrected quietly.

"And you!" the doctor rounded on me, "You leave your brother's things alone. What he does is not your business. Don't touch his stuff." I nodded ever so slightly and returned to my plate, estimating the ratio of bites of pork to bites of mashed potato. "Speaking of your business," the doctor's sharp gaze turned to his eldest son, "Where were you last night?" I glanced up from my plate long enough to catch Mycroft's swift glare.

"At home, where else?" he answered, guardedly and angrily. I ignored the rest of the conversation. Mycroft was getting in trouble double over, so that was good enough for me. But what wasn't was the continuing dilemma of Kyle Halloran's dog. The leash should have been on the hook. A dog that runs away isn't going to take his leash. Somebody must have stolen him. I made a mental note to ask Kyle about barking.

"Sherlock, how was your day?" the angel asked me sweetly, ignoring the thick tension between my father and brother.

"I sailed around the Caribbean a few times and discovered lost treasures," I smiled. My father returned the smile, but there was something in his eyes. The angel had that look sometimes. Usually when my brother or I got sick, or something happened. I think it was...worry.

"Did you hear that the Halloran's dog ran away?" the angel said to my father, continuing her quest for a normal dinner.

"Not ran away, stolen," I corrected her. The angel's brow furrowed and she exchanged a glance with my father.

"What do you mean 'stolen'?" he asked me. I sighed.

"Kyle came to ask me to help him look for it because I'm smart. We looked in all the obvious places and I checked out the dog's little house. Given the lack of evidence that it forced its way out and the missing leash, I've come to the obvious conclusion that it was stolen," I finished and nibbled lightly on a roll. There was silence.

"Sherlock, what did we tell you about making assumptions?" the doctor's voice was thin with exasperation. Anger coursed through my veins.

"It's not an assumption. It's a deduction. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth," I looked back down at my hardly touched plate, "It's elementary." Elementary. Hm. I liked the sound of that. The exasperated sighs of my mother and father echoed around the room, nearly hidden by Mycroft stifling his laughter.


	4. Chapter 4

_The dark was quiet. I used to like the quiet. Quiet meant I could think. Quiet meant that nobody could bother me and I could retreat within myself and be alone. But now, the quiet was too quiet. "John, pass me my phone," silence met my words. I opened my eyes to continued darkness and remembered. Oh, yes. I'm dead. Well-in a manner of speaking. I sighed and listened to the sigh echo like a ghost around the darkness. Memories, memories of life gone by flashed before my eyes again. The doctor used to sigh like this. When Mycroft disappointed him, or I couldn't be...normal...he'd sigh. The memories of why my father sighed brought back another memory. She was taller than me by five inches and sneered down with a pinched freckled nose. I could still see her bright red pig tails swinging and hear the derided laughter..._

"Freak!" Annaly Bakersby's words bounced around my head, hitching caboose on every train of thought and jumping tracks at every station. "Freak!" Not even my violin could distract me from it. Furrowing my brow, I put away the string instrument, flicking the bow back and forth. The dust from the rosen filtered into the air, glinting dully like tiny stars in miniscule galaxies. My eyes tracked a specific piece, watching it swim and swoop up slowly until it disappeared into the shadows of the ceiling. Downstairs a door slammed and the muffled voice of my older brother came through the not thick enough floor. The sod was home from Edinburgh, likely looking for handouts and a good meal. Studying government, I'd told him, was pointless considering it would fail us in the end. That had earned me a smack on the back of the head and a telling off. At least I wasn't burning flags. I was doing more useful things with my teenage years.

"Sherlock," the door to my bedroom opened and the angel came in. She had grown older, maybe even more older than this morning when I'd plagued her with questions about breakfast. "Mycroft is home. Why don't you come downstairs?" she smiled at me. The dim light of my lamp caught the silver strands in her blonde hair and created shadows in the wrinkles by her jaw and eyes. Over the years, the simple questions had become orders and the orders had become commands. "Sherlock," she said again, more firmly this time, "Come downstairs." A faint flush of fuschia came over my cheeks. Those wrinkled certainly weren't just Mycroft's fault. I rose and followed her out the door.

"Sherlock, good to see you brother!" Mycroft cried jovially, turning from his conversation with our father. He held out a hand, smiling. I looked at him, then his hand, then turned away. There was a moment of tense silence then Mycroft coughed and took a stab at conversation again,"How are you doing? Grades good? Eating?" I nodded yes in reply to them all. Uni had changed my older brother. Gone were the days of sneaking out and plotting protests. Gone were the days of choking me or beating me up because I'd nicked his stuff. He was now a student of government at a good university. He was now a local hero, destined to be PM. But to me...he'd always be the catalyst for getting me in trouble. An icy silence had descended on the room, the only heat being the rising color of anger in my father's face. The doctor had let himself go a bit. He looked more like a walrus now than an avenging angel of life. The real angel decided to break the ice.

"I've laid lunch in the kitchen, do tell me you're staying?" she smiled earnestly. The prodigal son smiled in return and the happy family retreated to the kitchen, me dragging along behind.

"So," Mycroft began, after indulging himself on everything- I'd barely touched my salad- "How are things at home?" Instantly I tuned out.

Nothing my mother could say about Mrs. So-and-so's daughter or Mr. and Mrs. Next Door's domestics would interest me. The sun outside had risen to the middle of the sky and was covered by a mass of long white clouds. A sharp breeze shook the branches of the cherry tree outside the window, beating a tattoo on the glass window. Winter was approaching faster than I liked and soon snow would blanket the lane. Then would come the long months of white. Blah. Nothing. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored... "Sherlock?" I blinked. They were all staring at me. I blinked again,

"What?" Mycroft shifted in his seat.

"I asked," he apparently repeated, "Got a girlfriend?" I turned away,

"No, not really my area." The silence that followed felt prime to explode. I glanced around the table, confused. The walrus had turned red again and the angel was surprisingly pale.

"Uh...boyfriend?" Mycroft tried again, "Because, if you do, I mean- that's fine." I turned my gaze on him. "I know it is," I stated simply. Mycroft blanched.

"So," he tread carefully, "Got one?" I furrowed my brow.

"No." The tension seemed to release a bit, but the walrus stayed pink.

"Well," Mycroft coughed again, turning to look at the snow white angel, "got any dessert?"


	5. Chapter 5

"Sherlock Holmes, I know you're in there!" the girl's voice came through the door. The smoke from my cigarette clouded the air in front of me. Sasha really wasn't going to let this go.

"Go away, I'm not doing it," I shouted in reply. The floorboards outside the door frame creaked slightly as she shifted her weight. She was wearing the black boots again, the ones with the laces. I could tell by the way the floor creaked: the shoes were tight on her heels so she'd switch to her toes sometimes. Odd manufacturing. The swish of her coat told me it had rained and she'd walked here by herself. There was no way her good for nothing mother had driven her the ten miles. Many things in the world didn't surprise me because I already knew about them or anticipated them. But why people chose to be parents did. Such a taxing long job only to be rewarded if the spawn saw fit.

"I'll tell your mother you're smoking indoors," Sasha's whisper penetrated the thin ash wood. Angry at my own defeat, I jumped up and opened the door. As I'd expected, Sasha was completely soaked and mud was splattered up even onto the hem of her short skirt. She glared at me narrow eyed and menacingly. "If you don't do this, I'll fail," she hissed, "and if I fail, I'll break your nose so bad not even plastic surgery will fix it." We glared at each other. A thin hiss of air, almost an inpatient man's sigh, escaped my lips.

"My mother doesn't know I smoke. Don't tell her." Sasha frowned in consideration as she entered my pale blue bedroom, tracking mud all over the tan carpet.

"Hm. So you are human." Her words were lost on me. Instead of elaborating, Sasha got right to work and forced me to give her a cigarette. I watched angrily as she burned through three of my precious Lambert and Butlers. School mattered so much to Sasha. The only explanation I could find was that without school, quite honestly she'd have nothing. Her whole life was there, whereas mine was wholly not. "Now," the student began, "I think we ought to do a project on something we're both interested in." I picked up my violin, plucking the strings randomly. Research projects were utterly boring. The student paused for a moment. "What do you like?" I rolled my eyes to the empty heavens, a habit I despised. Sasha was angry now. "Fine," she all but spat, "I'll just list what I like and you can comment." She didn't even ask if I agreed. "Cricket" Boring. "Snowfall" Boring. "Harry Potter" Interesting for about five pages, then boring. "Black Coffee" Boring. "BBC" Incredibly boring. "Murder" I whipped my head around, staring at her. What did she just stay? Sasha laughed quietly. "Just checking to see if you were listening," she muttered, crossing that one off the list. Slowly I turned away my mind buzzing.

As the hours passed, Sasha picked a topic. As the days passed, she gathered facts. As the months passed, she built a presentation. I watched the snowfall. One bleakly depressing morning, the sound of my mother humming and the jingle bells on Mycroft's suit case alerted me to the fact that my most hated at of the year was here. Christmas. I sat alone in my room, facing the darkening window. They'd given up calling me down for dinner ages ago and I could hear the clinks of their silverware and the joy of their laughter below. The smoke from my second pack that day curled around the tops of my nw model pirate ship Mycroft had brought me. I'd never reveal to him that I liked it and as I watched the wisps curl around the drooping black flag, that was what I was thinking when the doorbell rang. The dinning room was suddenly silent and my mother got up to go to the door. She pushed her chair back the quietest. The muffled voice below made my brow furrow. What...?

"Sherlock Holmes, I know you're in there," Sasha said through the door. No creaking floorboards. Different boots? No coat swish. Light jacket? I glanced out the window before opening the door. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock," she said cheerily. I frowned, looking at the bag she was carrying. It was full to the brim with presents.

"Going to see your boyfriend?" Sasha looked surprised. "Oh come on. You're wearing a black dress and a thin jacket you think makes you look pretty and despite the fact that it's a blizzard and you're walking, you've done your hair. Now, given that the bag is full, you've walked from town and here is your first stop. Regular Santa, are you? All the presents in the bag are slapdash at best except for the one on top. That one you've wrapped very carefully-put a lot of time and effort- into that one and you've tied it with a nice ribbon. The color of the paper is the exact shade of your lipstick and you don't do anything unintentionally, so that means something. So given the way you've dressed up and the way you've nicely wrapped the box, you're going to see your boyfriend. What was his name? Jack? James?"

"John," Sasha corrected me through gritted teeth. I grabbed the box to see if I was right.

"And you're giving him this gift to make up for your lack of physical attraction..." I trailed off, staring at the tag. My heart went cold. _Dear Sherlock, Happy Christmas. Love, Sasha xo_. My eyes couldn't meet hers.

"You're a horrible person, Sherlock Holmes," her voice shook with every word, "I'd started to think you weren't so bad but now..." The room was silent. "Now I know I was wrong." Suddenly I realized she was crying. "You're a horrible person, Sherlock Holmes," she began to sob, and snatched the present bag off the table. Two steps from the door she stopped. "Annaly Bakersby was right about you, Sherlock," her anger was like a slap across the face. Like a punch to the nose. "You're not a person at all. You're...you're...a-a freak!" she shouted the last word, silencing the meal downstairs. Sobbing again, Sasha stomped down the stairs and slammed the front door behind her, running out into the blizzard. She caught pneumonia on the way home and died two weeks later. Her father came and took her things from school and her mother checked into rehab for drug abuse, third year running. One day many years later, I opened that red box. Inside was a tiny glass otter and a small note written in her superfluous handwriting: _this reminds me of you_. And that was the last time I heard from those years again. The disembodied voice of Sasha Tannery comparing me to an otter.

On that project...I didn't even get a B.


	6. Chapter 6

_Yet again the car hit another bump and yet again, I was lifted a fraction off the grey carpeted floor and dropped down. Already my tailbone hurt and my back was aching, but that really didn't matter. What mattered was that John and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were safe and Moriarty was dead. A little discomfort wasn't too bad. The van was carrying me down a gravel road based on the rain-like pattern of stones hitting the sides. There was another dip, forcing me to grab the grimy ledge of the blackened window in order not to fall over. I glanced at my watch, settling myself again on the floor of the empty van. I'd missed midnight by two minutes. A sigh escaped my lips. I'd been dead officially one day. A whole day, the world had continued to exist around me without even a hope of me being in it. Something twinged in my chest, bringing a frown to my face. Emotions were supposed to be my adversary. They didn't help solve cases. As the twinge in my chest grew tighter, I remembered the time I'd let every emotion I had get in the way. I'd never found her killer because of it. No, well, because of me..._

"Florida," I mumbled darkly, switching my cigarette to the other hand so I could scratch the mosquito bites on my side. It was so nice to be back in London with the cold. Florida had looked promising, what with all the psychos running around eating each other's faces. But nearly every case I'd taken had stemmed right back to the same problem: drugs. So I was back in London, back in the rain, and back in my long black coat. Anyways, my scarf was useless in the hot sticky Floridian weather. Stuffing out the finished stub and lighting another, I leaned back in the shadows, watching the movements of the people below me. They were just wrapping up a crime scene, leaving the body for the morning and all the evidence for the real detectives to view tomorrow. I watched with distaste as some idiot in a dinosaur shirt down there loudly disregarded evidence, his nasally voice floating up to me. I think they called him...Anderson.

Slowly the stadium lights shut off one by one and after a moment, the scene was still. Dropping the glowing embers of my cigarette, lightly I hopped from window ledge to window ledge down towards the crime scene. There was an excited jitter in the bottom of my stomach and a swift jumpy feeling in my toes. I swallowed dryly, trying to contain my excitement. A murder! A lovely murder! Barely evidence of a killer but this was the third this week! Not just a murderer, a serial killer! The best kind! Always something to look forward to. I dropped catlike onto the concrete, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. Suddenly a bright light blinded me and I froze, trying to see the holder.

"Don't move," a man's voice came. It shook ever so slightly, and likely was less high pitched than now. A small smile flickered across my lips. He was scared. Not listening, I stood up, seeing the man now. Mid-thirties. Average height and weight. Dark eyes flashing slightly and a bit of premature grey on his sideburns. I shifted slightly, looking at the flashlight. Police grade. Large and potentially lethal if you hit the right spot. There was a ring on his finger; recently married. Hm. I probably should let him know... "Who are you?" he shouted. In the moment of silence, he'd regained control of his voice. I tilted my head. The man swallowed and furrowed his brow. "I've seen you around before. Who are you?" he asked again, a little quieter this time. I sighed.

"Just an interested party," I mumbled in reply, walking towards the plastic covered body on the ground, pulling out my own flashlight.

"Why do you come?" the man continued, following me but at a distance, "I mean, to the scenes anyways." Kneeling down by the dead woman, I ignored him. She was blonde. Dyed. Mid-fifties. Rich, oh was she rich. Jewelry all still there though...hm. I stood up looking around. "Hey," the man continued, "I asked you-."

"Cause of death?" I interrupted. The man blinked.

"Single knife wound to the back." My mind was racing, whirling out of control, a bucking stallion and I was barely holding on.

"And the last murder?" I asked, knowing where this was going.

"Slit her throat, same knife," the man confirmed, "Knife killed the one before that too."

"Yes, yes, yes. Do you see it?" I fixed my gaze on him. He blinked again,

"Same weapon?"

"Yes. And?"

"Well...they've all been rich women of a similar age and hair color..."

"Which tells us?"

"He's got a type."

"Exactly. And where will the next murder take place?" He was stumped at this question.

"W-what?" he asked. I rolled my eyes, slipping out another cigarette.

"Really, detective," I hissed, "I expected more of you." There was a pause.

"I'm not a detective," the man blurted. I turned. Not a detective? Why didn't I catch that? "Well," he continued, "Not yet." Ah. There we go.

"Well then, not yet a detective, look at where the murders have taken place so far and text me when you've figured it out," I said quickly, handing the slightly stunned non-detective my number. My footsteps were already echoing in the alley's brick walls before he replied.

"Who are you?" the shout reverberated in the darkness. I turned back, my face lit ever so slightly by my cigarette. "Sherlock Holmes. And you?" The man straightened up.

"Officer Lestrade." I nodded and disappeared into the night.


	7. Chapter 7

Clack-clack. clack-clack.

"The door's unlocked," I shouted from out of the kitchen, thoroughly annoyed. Why in all bloody hell was Mycroft here?

"Sherlock, you know that is dangerous," the fattened politician chided me upon entering the room. I glanced up at my brother then looked back down at my work.

"Surely that cream donut couldn't have been any good for you either, brother dear," I replied sardonically. Mycroft's glower was so strong I could almost smell it. A sigh escaped my lips,

"No, I won't take the case." A similar sigh escaped the politician. It seemed we had both inherited the same trait from the walrus. Well, more like a giant walrus these days.

"Sherlock, this is a matter of national importance!" Mycroft snapped, banging in umbrella tip on the linoleum. Clack.

"Mycroft, since when have I cared?" I snapped, sitting back and staring up at him. Why must he be so boring when someone else is being so delightfully interesting? The politician knitted his brows, holding out a file.

"A civil servant, Alexander North, known as Alex to his friends, was found dead on the docks at Port of London this morning with his neck snapped." I continued ignoring him. The politician plowed on, "It's not him that's too important, it's what he had." A file, a memory stick, something important pertaining to something Mycroft does. Which was...um... "A file," my brother confirmed, "was in his jacket pocket when he left his home last night and-,"

"It's no longer there," I finished, focussing the microscope even closer on the specimen. I'd set up this new website telling people about what I did and how to at least feebly attempt to be like me. My first post would be identifying poisons. It had taken quite a bit of maneuvering to get this Clostridium botulinum and I wasn't about to ignore it.

"Yes," Mycroft said sourly, "and we want it back." Silence followed his words. I'd already told him I wouldn't take the case. It was wondersome why he was still here. Finally the politician seemed to understand. "Sherlock, this is not a life," he mumbled, brushing a hand over the test tubes and petri dishes covering the rickety table barely able to support the weight of my microscope I'd got on a very bad Christmas many years ago. I didn't reply. Slowly the clack-clack of the umbrella retreated towards the open door. "Oh, by the way, Sherlock," Mycroft paused in the doorframe and I paused imperceptibly in my work, "Mother is coming to visit you tomorrow. Do try to clean up." And with that the door slammed behind him.

The night was dark and crisp, completely different from the terrible Floridian weather. I gazed up at the sparkling sky, all alight with the glittering droplets called stars. My eyes passed over every light, and silently I named every star, supernova and constellation. Maybe sometimes I didn't look up at the stars too much. It was too quiet. Too calm. Ugh, and quiet was hateful. The inky black tornado of chaos was more my type. When my blue scarf could flap in the wind like a ocean colored pirate's flag and I could be a shining knight in dark armor. But I wasn't a hero. No, heroes didn't exist and if they did, I wasn't one of them.

I was up on this rooftop because I'd heard the familiar footsteps on the stairs and quite honestly I didn't want to see her. She'd probably try and make me talk to the walrus. I was not going to apologize to him.

"Did you really think I wouldn't find you up here?" the angel's voice came from behind me. I sighed, dropping my cigarette. She still couldn't see that. "I am your mother you know," she was coming closer, "I do know a little bit about you." Silence met her words. "Why don't we go inside, dear?" the angel asked, putting a soft hand on my sleeve. I shifted away, shoving my hands deeper in my pockets. "Maybe you and I could sit down and talk. I could put the kettle on and we could talk. Wouldn't that be nice?" She touched me again and I shifted farther away.

"I'm not a child," I hissed through gritted teeth.

"You're acting like a child now, Sherlock," the angel snipped, her voice sharp and slightly biting. I shrugged off the pain. Why did it hurt me? Nothing hurt me. Why did something hurt now? "Sherlock-," she tried and I shook her off, stepping a few paces away.

"Go away," I mumbled, my fingers itching for another cigarette.

"Sherlock, I'm concerned about you," the angel said quietly, "Mycroft said you haven't a real job, and that you sit around labs all day. And he says you have no friends and that you don't go out to public. I'm concerned because I...I want you to find someone...I want you to have love..." she paused, "...or at least some friends." Anger simmered in my veins.

"I do to have friends," sounding ever the child I said I was not. Though I couldn't see her face, the prematurely triumphant purse of her lips burned into my back.

"Prove it." The steely cold rain of defeat doused me inside. Maybe once upon a time there'd sort of been Kyle and there was almost Sasha. Officer Lestrade! He'd replied to my question finally, texting me the answer. Correctly, I might add. I opened my mouth to slap her with my words, but I stopped. Was mutual respect friendship? My silence answered her challenge. "See, dear," she whispered, her steps getting closer, "I just want you to have love-"

"No!" I shouted, the shout ringing in the brick and darkness. An alleycat below in the squeeze between buildings jumped in fear. "No," I repeated, "love is pointless. It's a disadvantage. I don't want it from anyone, I will not return it. Not even you." The next words in my throat died at the sharp gasp she made. I turned around, almost surprised. Mid-fifties. Blonde. Dyed. Rich, still rich on the walrus' retirement funds. Once she had been beautiful, once many years ago. That was before her second son had grown up and the tightness of her forehead sagged with worry, the skin between her sculpted brows furrowed with anger, and crows feet pulled at the corner of her bright blue eyes. Eyes that now reflected his, same color, same gaze. I took a step back. In the light of the stars it almost seemed as though time had turned back the clock and we were back in the kitchen._ "Sherlock, dear, we're out of milk," she looked up at me, smiling with those blue eyes, "Can you run down to the shop and get some for me?"_ I blinked. That wasn't now. That wasn't now... The angel stared at me with those blue eyes.

"Who are you?" she asked. Her retreating footsteps rang in my ears throughout the long cold night...

_The fresh salty air of the ocean swept in a breeze around me, twirling my scarf in its long cold fingers. I wiped my sharp cheekbones dry, something inside me denying that it was tears on my face but salt spray. That was the first time Lestrade had been right about something and the only time I'd been upset by a murder. Maybe because I knew it was my fault. Maybe because my pride, my joy, is in knowing noticing- NOTICING EVERYTHING. Oh the anger still boiled in my veins that night and sometimes deep in the darkness it shifted, the leviathan that swallowed everything. With the monster of the deep, came the seeping draft of cold through the cracks of windows I constantly painted over and over and over to keep it out. But weather and erosion are forces more powerful than God or any human, including me. My mind, the strongest weapon the world, the most powerful one in possession of anyone wasn't strong enough against the wild untamed branch of its tree. I think John called the feeling...guilt. He didn't know about her. It wasn't something I remembered often. Mycroft never forgot, but he was stronger than I in that sense. He wasn't riddled dry with guilt from his own termites. The seeping draft suddenly permeated my being and I pulled my coat tighter, bending my face into the collar. Suddenly the clouds broke and a single beam of sunlight cascaded down, warming my cheeks. My angel...the angel...truly an angel...I guess if heaven was real….. I swept at my eyes again, before turning away. This time the guilt wasn't solely for her. Maybe it was time to return home._


End file.
